Monachopsis
by TakeTheCrown
Summary: Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. Many of the tributes know that they're not cut out for the Games, so it's not really a shock when they don't return home. (SYOT CLOSED)
1. Prologue

The days before Reaping Day are usually the worst for many in the Districts.

The tension is almost unbearable, everyone's thoughts cast forward to the ceremony. Everyone replaying almost the exact same scenario in their heads, the only difference being the name that is scrawled on the piece of paper, or the voice that cries out to volunteer.

Reaping Day is nerve-wracking, but at least (for most families) it's over quickly. Names are drawn from the bowls and tributes are sent off but those left behind are free to get on with their day. They buy treats to celebrate another year spared, they spend time together with the day off of work and school, and they have little worries. Because to them, it doesn't matter whether or not those who are reaped come back. If they do, it's great. If they don't then they're indifferent. Not many of those in the outer districts have witnessed a win in generations so it's not as if they know anything different.

But every year there's a handful of families that are destroyed. The world keeps turning, the district keeps going, but they keep mourning.

It shouldn't have been them. It shouldn't have been their child or friend or cousin.

It shouldn't have been. But it was.

The 94th Hunger Games are about to begin. 23 families shattered. Only one tribute receiving the eternal glory the others seek.

* * *

Welcome to my first SYOT! These were a huge part of my childhood, and of my first experience with fanfiction. Now that I'm older and more confident in my writing skills, I wanted to give back to the community who gave so much to me.

The form and tribute list are on my profile. I will not be accepting applications through comments, so sorry about that.

The reapings will be uploaded as they are written and as I receive submissions then later reordered once they're all submitted.

Thank you for reading and I can't wait to see your submissions!


	2. District Ten Reapings

**District Ten**

* * *

Maverick "Rickie" Holmewood, 17.

* * *

Reaping Day is one of the only days of the year that Rickie is exempt from his morning chores but of course he wakes up in time to do them anyway. There's no use in him staying put in his bed for most of the morning so he gets up and dressed and is out of the house heading towards the chicken coop before anyone else in the house is even awake. It makes him feel good, that he's up and doing his chores when he doesn't need to be, and he's sure that his parents will at least appreciate it. His brothers won't really care, it makes no difference to them whether or not they have fresh eggs and milk in the morning.

The visit to the chicken coop doesn't yield anything, though. Rickie frowns as he hunches over, searching for the eggs that should have been laid by now. He's aware that chickens skip days, and his did quite often, but there was always at least one. Still, it isn't the end of the world. They have a surplus of eggs anyway and there'll probably be more tomorrow.

So he heads straight to the barn and spends the next hour milking the cows and filtering the milk into glass bottles. When he's done he slowly carries them inside, placing them into the icebox in the kitchen. Except for one that he places out in the kitchen for breakfast.

"Morning, kid," his papa smiles as he enters, wrapped in his dressing gown. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Just used to waking up early," Rickie shrugs, moving to a cabinet to grab a few eggs. Whilst he was on his productive streak he may as well start on breakfast. His mama could take over when she came down if she wanted to, but he was hungry and his brothers would be down soon with their ever-growing appetites. "There were no eggs this morning by the way."

"That's strange," his papa muses. "It was pretty cold last night, though, so maybe that's why. Did you check everywhere?"

"Uh-huh," Rickie nods, cracking a few eggs into the frying pan. "You can check later if you want but I promise I did."

"Maybe they'll lay them later," Rickie's brother, Otis, chimes in, leaning against the doorframe. "They don't always lay in the morning."

"Yeah, maybe," Rickie nods.

It's another fifteen minutes before breakfast is ready and all of the family is gathered. Rickie dishes up the food, taking his place at the table between two of his older brothers. The conversation stays on the chickens for a while but it inevitably turns to Reaping Day which then turns to him as the only one still eligible to be reaped. But none of them are worried; his parents and his five older brothers had gone through the reaping unscathed, and so would he. They've never had to take tesserae, living comfortably on the income they earned from the farm, and there are only two more years left until they don't have to worry.

Well, until they start having kids and those kids turn old enough to attend the reapings. But that's a long, long way away and Rickie isn't even sure if he wants kids. He's not sure how his parents handled having six kids. Boys at that. But they'd done a good job raising them, at least in Rickie's opinion.

He helps to clean up the kitchen and heads outside once more to help his brother Judd muck out the stables. But as soon as he's done with that it's time to get ready for the reaping.

Rickie showers and gets dressed in record speed, bidding goodbye to his parents and brothers before he leaves to go and meet his friends and walk down to the square. It's a good forty-minute walk to his friend's family farm but it's where they had all decided to meet so he tries not to complain too much. It was a lot closer to the square than Rickie's house was, and Rupert's mom makes the best French toast that Rickie has ever tasted.

Rupert telling them that his mom will make them French toast before the reaping had only sweetened the deal of meeting at his house.

* * *

Frankie Croft, 12.

* * *

Frankie doesn't stop running until her legs give out under her. She falls forward, hands outstretched and manages to cushion the blow a little bit. She lays there for a while, sprawled out on the side of the dirt road, and catches her breath before she clambers to her feet and brushes herself off, slinging her backpack carefully off of her shoulder to check that the eggs she'd just pilfered were alright.

Because if they weren't then all of that running had been for nothing and she'll be super pissed.

No one was supposed to almost catch her rooting through their chicken coop for eggs. It was Reaping Day; they were supposed to be sleeping in. But no. Not the boy who lived on that farm. Frankie doesn't think that he caught her, but it was close. He deserved to not have eggs for the stress that he'd caused her.

They're fine, wrapped in an abundance of newspaper, and she lets out a small sigh of relief before bending down to pick her cap up from the mud. She straightens up, puts her backpack back on, and starts walking. She wants to hit the marketplace before she gets ready for the reaping and considering the amount she needs to do, time could be tight.

But at least there was no one waiting for her anywhere. Frankie can do what she wants when she wants and often does. There's no one expecting her to stick to a schedule or relying on her to complete tasks. And she likes that. Most orphans in Ten hang around the farms, hoping that if they're persistent enough then they'll be hired as a farm hand. All they want in ways of payment is a bed and food.

And it's a good idea, Frankie doesn't deny that, but she can't do it. She's tried and all was good for about a week and then she took off in the middle of the second week because she couldn't take it anymore. She knows that she's not less than anyone—her momma had made sure that Frankie knew that—and the way that she was treated as a farm hand... well. It was clear that she wasn't on an equal level.

But Frankie was doing just fine alone and without work. She gets by on what she can; foraged goods, stolen goods, it doesn't matter to her. She'll sell them at the market place anyway. She tends to stay close by the river on the outskirts in the day and at night she's often hiding out in someone's barn. The rich kids might turn their noses up at kids like her but Frankie doesn't care.

The market place is pretty quiet when Frankie gets there. She sells six of the eight eggs and splits the money, adding half of it to her coin purse. The other half she spends on a single bread roll at the baker's stall, and a cheap collared shirt from the tailors. It's cheap and it looks itchy to all hells, but Frankie pays for it anyway. Her breeches only need a quick rinse in the river, but her shirt is done for.

She'll keep wearing it of course, but it won't do for the reaping. She detests spending extra money for such a rotten cause, but there's not too much that she can do. It's just a new shirt, anyway, one that she can keep wearing even though the reaping is over.

The river is her next stop after the market place. She heads to her usual spot. She washes her breeches and her old shirt, hanging them from a tree to dry, before she heads into the river herself. She bathes quickly before returning to the shore, dressing in her new shirt and a pair of trousers stuffed in the bottom of her backpack.

She's definitely tight on time as she gets a fire going, boiling the two eggs that she didn't sell. Frankie leaves her spot in a pair of damp breeches, her new shirt, a bread roll that she didn't have time to eat with the eggs between her teeth as she pulls her hair into two braids and puts her cap back on. Joining the crowd of people solemnly making their way towards the square she finished her breakfast and tries not to stand out.

It's quite hard when she's one of few girls not wearing a dress or skirt.

She gets her finger pricked and moves to the twelve-year-old section. It feels weird to be on this side of the rope after years of standing on the other side, but she's not scared. The girl next to her is visibly trembling and Frankie rolls her eyes. By the look of the dress the girl has on she belongs to one of the richer families. Her name is probably in there once. Granted, Frankie is only in there twice—she's the only person she can claim tesserae for—but it's still double the number of entries the other girl has. Some of the other girls around them have way more, and Frankie doesn't envy them.

The escort is a creepy looking man dressed in a hot pink suit, hair the same colour. He changes it up every year. Frankie doesn't listen as he drones on and on, and she stares blankly at the screen that the video plays from, at least pretending to be interested.

At some point, the girl beside her has seized Frankie's arm and although Frankie knows that she's looking for comfort, she doesn't give it. She just stares straight ahead, watching as the escort moves towards the girls' bowl.

The tension in the air rises to almost unbearable levels as the man fishes out a slip of paper, but it almost all melts away when the name on it is read out.

"Frankie Croft," the man smiles. Frankie feels as if the air has been knocked out of her lungs. "Where are you, Frankie, dear?" Comes the appeal after a few seconds of silence.

And then she's moving, anger boiling deep in the pit of her stomach. She shakes the other girl off her arm who lets out a quiet gasp, and the other girls start to move to let Frankie through. Her hands curl into fists as she joins the peacekeepers in the aisle and is marched to the stage, nails digging into her palms.

"Oh aren't you just the cutest little thing," the escort coos as she joins him. He reaches out to hook a finger under her chin, but it never makes it. Frankie bites it before it can even touch her.

The escort yelps, but he quickly waves off the peacekeepers. "You're feisty," he says. "I like that."

There's a dull chuckle from the crowd and Frankie turns to them, still seething.

She's still seething when she's sat alone in the visiting room, and when she and Maverick are herded towards the train. She focuses on it. Lets it burn.

* * *

Maverick "Rickie" Holmewood, 17.

* * *

Rupert's mom's French toast is all that Rickie has dreamed of and more.

Despite having had breakfast he still manages to find room for three slices before they're shooed from the house. Rupert grabs another one just before they leave, splitting it into quarters and handing it to the others as they start to walk.

"Those who eat the magical French toast will not be reaped," he jokes. "And it has a two-year warranty. We won't be reaped next year either."

"God, I hope so," Stephanie sighs from Rupert's right. As the poorest of all of them, Stephanie has her name in a lot more than either Rickie, Rupert or Grant. They all exchange solemn looks.

"You're not gonna be reaped, Steph," Rickie says, moving to her side. He wraps an arm around her shoulder. "Rupert's right. Those who ate the French toast are protected. Besides, you've come this far. You'll be fine."

And he tries his best but he knows that without having tesserae, his words don't really carry the weight that he wants them to. Stephanie just nods, letting out another sigh. Rickie can feel a small swell of anger building up inside of him; he wants the Capitol citizens to take their place. He's sure that they wouldn't like it if they were entered into a lottery every year and put to death for the entertainment of others.

He sees the effects of the reaping every year. On his friends, on his family, on the families of those unfortunate souls that are picked.

But he quickly swallows the anger down. The Hunger Games are just something that has to happen, as unfortunate as it is. And he feels bad for all those that are reaped, even for the kids in the career district that train their whole lives and willingly enter the games, but he and his friends aren't going to join them. They're going to be fine. They're going to be fine.

The phrase circles around Rickie's head from the time that they reach the square to the time that the girl is reaped.

He watches with bated breath as the name is picked, letting out a sigh of relief as he doesn't recognise the name. But the silence that comes after it is a little unsettling. There's usually some sort of commotion either from the bystanders' section or the tribute themselves, but the district is so silent that you could hear a pin drop until the escort opens his stupid mouth again.

And when the girl does come forward she's tiny. A wisp of a thing. But Rickie finds it strange that there's no commotion from the bystanders. He turns to look at them and there are tears being shed—nobody likes a twelve-year-old being chosen—but there's nobody calling Frankie's name or trying to fight their way to her. That unsettles Rickie a little. He meets Stephanie's eyes from across the aisle and she looks horrified. She won't volunteer, though. There's no point.

It's clear that Frankie isn't having any of it anyway. Rickie has to stifle a laugh when she bites the escort and although everyone else will be quick to write her off, Rickie thinks that she stands a chance. Not of winning, but at least making it out of the bloodbath alive.

Things move on rather quickly. Things move really quickly.

Soon Rickie's name is echoing around the district.

They're not going to be fine.

Rickie's ears start to ring when it fully sets in. He hears the pained cries of his mama and his brothers. The booming shout of his papa calling his name. Stephanie's being held back by the other girls, Rupert and Grant stood next to him stare at him with their mouths open. He doesn't expect them to volunteer for him but he wishes that they would.

He's found by the peacekeepers and dragged up to the stage. They place him on the other side of the escort, and he's almost ashamed when he thinks that little Frankie is handling this entire thing a lot better than him. A damn twelve-year-old.

The visits are too much of a blur for him to really remember. He remembers hugs. He remembers empty promises.

God, he thinks when he's finally left alone, District Ten really are doomed this year.


	3. District Three Reapings

**District Three**

* * *

Daphne Dagworth, 15.

* * *

On the morning of Reaping Day, Daphne Dagworth finds herself hunched over her desk working by the dim light of her lamp. Several school textbooks are cracked open around her, gaze flitting between them all as she takes as many notes as she can. She knows the information already, but she's desperately searching for something new between all of the books around her, a small tidbit that she doesn't already know, eager to enhance the knowledge she already has just a little bit more.

But it looks like she's going to have to take another trip to the library because these books aren't helping her with that at all.

She takes a small break, rocking back on her chair as she looks forward out of her bedroom window. The streets are usually bustling at this time of day, school kids and workers alike making their way to the places where they'd spend most of their day, but today they're empty. Unease settles in Daphne's stomach like hot coals, and she distracts herself by looking down at the book in her lap.

It's an ancient text, written way before Panem was founded, and it discusses the idea of justice which is explored through the building of a city. It's a dialogue and although it's hard to figure out who's speaking at times because it's not labelled, Daphne loves it. The whole premise of the city that Socrates is building is inherently flawed, and it would never ever work, but his reasoning is interesting and Daphne can just about live with the fact that Socrates never gives his definition of justice whilst repeatedly tearing down his dialogue partners'.

She's on her third re-read now but every time she reads it she learns something new and the confusing analogies become just a bit clearer.

"Daphne," there's a gentle knock at her door, accompanied by her little sister Alexandra's voice. "Are you awake? Can I come in?"

"Sure," Daphne calls back, twisting around in her chair as her bedroom door creaks open.

Alexandra pads across the room in her nightgown, perching on the end of Daphne's bed. "Why?" She wrinkles her nose, gesturing to the books and Daphne's notepad. "It's Reaping Day. We don't even have school."

"Knowledge waits for no one, Alexandra," Daphne says, tapping her little sister's forehead. But she takes the hint and closes the books, stacking them into a pile. "I'm done now, alright? What did you want?"

"I was just bored," Alexandra shrugs, letting herself fall back onto Daphne's bed. "Mom's cooking breakfast and Dad's still waking up so they told me to stop bothering them. So I came to bother you instead," she sits up with a cheeky grin and Daphne resists the urge to roll her eyes. "What were you doing?"

"School stuff," She shrugs. "Project research mainly."

"Oh cool," Her sister says, and Daphne laughs because the girl couldn't sound more unenthusiastic if she'd tried.

Daphne doesn't get a chance to point it out before their mother's voice is calling their names for breakfast. Alexandra is out of the door in seconds but Daphne pauses to put her slippers on. She heads downstairs, getting to the table before their father who takes another couple of minutes. As soon as he arrives, taking his seat they're allowed to eat, and it's mostly silent as they do so.

Meal times can often be tense in their household, and usually at Daphne's expense. And it's not that her parents don't love each other, they do, but both of them have different approaches to Daphne's education. Her father thinks she's done enough; she has some of the highest grades in her school, she's already been offered an apprenticeship at one of the best labs in the district that she's going to take after she finished school, and, honestly, Daphne's a little inclined to agree. But her mother thinks that she needs to keep going, that she needs to push herself more and use her full potential, and Daphne agrees with that too. She's been given a gift, she thinks, and she doesn't need to settle for anything. She can do whatever she puts her mind to. Well... as soon as she turns eighteen at least.

But thankfully, they leave the subject alone this morning and after breakfast, Daphne's left alone to get ready for the reaping.

She roots through her selection of dresses, picking out a simple dark red one. It looks nice but doesn't scream 'rich kid' like some of her other dresses do. She dons it, slipping on a pair of shoes her mom bought her last week. She's just about to sort out her hair when Alexandra enters again, wearing a sky blue dress that Daphne thinks suits her super well.

"Can you braid my hair?" The younger girl pleads. "Pretty please? Mom's busy and Dad's useless at this stuff."

Daphne agrees and so sorting out her own hair is postponed until she sorts out her younger sister's.

It doesn't take too long and afterwards, Daphne's deft fingers pull her own hair into the braids that she'd just done on her sister. Alexandra beams when Daphne joins her downstairs, and they wait for their parents who appear just as the horn blares across the district.

She hadn't really let herself focus on the reaping for the morning, but walking to the square makes Daphne more anxious than she's ever been in her life.

* * *

Becquerel "Bec" Lamarr, 13.

* * *

Bec isn't really a fan of how Rusty keeps dragging him into his pranks. The bucket of water took a painstaking amount of time to balance on top of the door, and they'd been crouched around the corner for a while now. It's starting to get boring for him, but Rusty is still grinning with delight.

"Are you sure the bucket isn't going to fall on them and hurt them?" Bec whispers, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

"'Course it ain't. We tied it, remember?" Rusty giggles. Bec is constantly impressed with how well the odd accent the boy speaks with fits him—Bec had never heard anyone with the accent before Rusty turned up at the orphanage, but he can't imagine Rusty sounding different. "Now, shh! They's comin'!"

'They's' turns out to be one of the orphanage staff members. A younger woman, one of the nicer ones, which reassures Bec a little bit because it means that they won't get into too much trouble.

The boys wait with bated breath as the woman pushes open the door, and then their laughter is filling the corridor as the woman gets absolutely soaked (the rope does its job-the woman isn't hurt, just wet). She doesn't even yell, just slowly accepts her fate and dripping clothes.

They don't hang around long enough to see what she does next, Rusty's grip tight on Bec's arm as he drags him towards their dormitories. Bec wasn't too happy about it but Rust had already bribed the other boys in there to tell the headmistress, if they were asked, that they were in there the entire time the prank was being carried out. Bec didn't contribute anything of his to the bribery fund and made it clear that he wouldn't lie to save their asses.

Rusty had just come back with a simple "just let me do the talkin' if we're asked then." and left it at that. Bec supposes that's fair.

So when the headmistress comes storming into the dormitory as they're playing cards, Bec keeps his mouth shut tight. They end up in trouble anyway, but the confusion that's caused by the conflicting claims—the worker's of having seen Bec and Rusty and the boys' of the pair being in the dorm for the whole time—the sentence is less than it would have been.

Bec can deal with a week of washing up duty. Especially if it's beside Rusty.

When she leaves the headmistress tells them all to go and wash up for breakfast, and so they do. Rusty slips away at some point as they're queuing for the bathroom to use the sink but Bec doesn't follow him as he rounds the corner, aware that he might just end up roped into yet another one of his pranks.

After scrubbing his hands clean Bec heads to the dining room, grabbing the tray of food he's handed at the counter. There are several options of people for him to sit next to, but he opts for sitting between Elesa and Cobalt as usual. The two girls aren't really friends (Cobalt doesn't like Elesa because she's too quiet, Elesa doesn't like Cobalt because she's too blunt and a little bit of a bitch) but they put up with each other for Bec's sake. And he appreciates that. A lot.

"Looking forward to later?" Bec asks, tearing a chunk from his bread roll and dipping it in the warm soup. When the two girls look at him quizzically, he elaborates, "we get cake after dinner, remember? Like, everyone does. Not just the birthday kids."

"Oh yeah, I'm super excited about that, Bec," Cobalt snaps. "I can't wait for cake and the crushing realisation that one of our own is going into the games. Hell. Maybe even two of us."

"Maybe it's our year. Maybe no one from the orphanage will get reaped this year," Bec brushes her off, shaking his head. He knows it's unlikely with the number of kids in the orphanage and the extra entries they have in tesserae.

Last year it was a sweet fourteen-year-old girl that Bec didn't know very well, the year before both tributes had been older kids. They lived in what was called the 'big kids' orphanage' so Bec had never met them before, but there's something that connected all orphan kids together, or at least that's what Bec thinks, so it was still sad. And the year before that the districts' male tribute had been a twelve-year-old boy. Casting his mind back, Bec realises that there hasn't been an orphanage free reaping for at least his formative years. Maybe even further back.

Realising that makes him a little uneasy. But, as he said, this could be their year. Maybe this year will be the much-needed respite that the orphans of three so desperately. He hopes so at least.

After breakfast, they're rushed to get ready for the reaping. Bec is handed a white shirt and a pair of brown slacks by a worker. Neither of them fit, and he has to borrow a belt from Rusty just so his trousers would stay up.

Most of the kids are in the same boat that he is; the clothes mass purchased by those who ran the orphanage from the sidelines. Those who the kids constantly heard about ("they're giving their own money to give you a better life!") but never saw.

* * *

Daphne Dagworth, 15.

* * *

The tension in the air is almost unbearable as Daphne shifts from foot to foot, waiting for the square to start filling up. Alexandra is behind her in the twelve-year-old section, talking animatedly to her friends, but Daphne is pretty much alone in her section.

There's a few other girls that she knows from school and her parents' networking dinners sometimes, but she's not close enough to any of them to strike up an unprompted conversation. That's the problem with paying too much attention to her studies; her grades are stellar but her social skills are almost non-existent. Alexandra's her only friend, and that's only because they live with each other.

It takes a little bit of time but eventually the square fills up. The orphanage kids are the last to arrive in their ill-fitting clothes, their jaws clenched. Daphne can't imagine how they feel knowing that it's likely one of them that will take one of the spots. Or maybe both.

Their escort, a ditzy woman named Bonnie, starts the ceremony once everyone's in. The district falls silent, everybody waiting to see whether or not they have a chance this year. They're not too shabby in the terms of victors they have, but the selection of tributes over the past couple of years has been less than ideal. The orphanage kids give up as soon as their name is called out, and the richer kids have no skills besides being completely insufferable.

She might be the only one in the district who pays attention to the video, but she finds it interesting. It's quite clearly propaganda, that much can't be argued, but the techniques that they use, the clips that were carefully chosen to envoke an emotional response. As much as she hates the Capitol, she has to admit that it was pretty clever.

Soon enough it's time to choose the tributes, and she watches carefully as the escort plucks a name.

"Daphne Dagworth."

It's not just a name. It's not just an orphanage kid. It's _her _name. It's a _Dagworth _name.

Her feet start moving of their own accord, carrying her up to the stage. She doesn't feel anything at first, but then as she's stood on top of the stage there's a rage boiling deep inside her. It isn't fair; she has her whole life ahead of her.

The male tribute does end up being an orphanage kid. A small Asian boy who sobs and sobs and sobs and has to be dragged up to stand next to Bonnie. Daphne feels sorry for him as they shake hands, but she doesn't get time to say anything before she's marched to the visiting room.

Her family pile in, and there's a long hug and a silence that's broken only by sobs and sniffles.

"You can do it," her parents urge her over and over again and she nods, wiping at her eyes as they start to water. She's sure that those words have been uttered to every tribute that he said goodbye in this room, but it rarely ends up being true.

Still, she appreciates the sentiment.

When her parents step back Alexandra approaches, slipping the braided leather bracelet from her wrist.

"Have this as a token," the girl sniffs. Daphne pulls her into a hug. "Don't forget us."

"How could I?" Daphne says softly, crouching down to her sister's height. She slips the bracelet onto her own wrist, admiring it in the dim light filtering through the window. "Thank you, Alexandra. It's lovely. I love you."

They hug until the peacekeepers return and forcibly drag her family from the room. Daphne sinks onto the cushioned chair, head in her hands.

* * *

Becquerel "Bec" Lamarr, 13.

* * *

When his name is called out, Bec is rooted to the spot. He catches sight of Cobalt across the aisle who looks just as horror-struck. He doesn't know at what point he starts crying, but he's sobbing when the peacekeepers seize him and force him from his section and to the stage.

He had been so relieved when it hadn't been an orphanage kid picked for the female tribute. Although sad of course for the girl herself. But the small bit of hopefulness was quickly dashed when his own name was called out.

Bec collapses onto the sofa in the visiting room when he's shoved in there. He's only alone for a couple of seconds when his friends burst through the door.

Bec says goodbye to Rusty, thanks him for the laughs and apologises for leaving him alone on dish duty. He says goodbye to Elesa, thanks her for listening to him and for caring. He says goodbye to Cobalt, thanks her for her hilarious sarcasm, tells her, good-naturedly, to make other friends. Elesa wraps her arm around Cobalt's shoulder at that and Rusty slips his hand into Cobalt's free one.

It takes all of Bec's willpower not to cry when they leave as one.

A few other kids from the orphanage filter in and out, and they all say the same goodbyes.

Permanent ones. Because they all know that Bec isn't coming back.

How can he?

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

The book that Daphne is reading at the start is Plato's Republic. It's a Socratic dialogue in which the idea of justice is explored with the building of Socrates' ideal city, Kallipolis. It's true, though, that Socrates never gives a definition of justice in the entire thing, just tears down others' definitions. I realise it might not be interesting for the majority of you, but if you're interested in ancient philosophy and haven't read it already then I definitely recommend doing so!


	4. District Eight Reapings

**District Eight**

* * *

Barathea "Thea" Buckram, 14.

* * *

Thea locks the bathroom door, leaning heavily against the old wood as she lets out a sigh. Her head is starting to hurt and she closes her eyes, taking solace in the fact that the noise of the chaos happening outside is somewhat muted whilst the bathroom door is closed.

She loves being part of a big family usually, but today is one of the days that she doesn't. Her name is in there way too many times for her to be comfortable with, and trying to get nine kids under ten ready for a big event that they don't know anything about is exhausting. She's tired of dodging their questions and trying to make sure that the littles still have both of their shoes whilst trying to do her younger sister's hair, watching as another sister pulls out the hairstyle that Thea had just finished. She's losing her patience pretty quickly, and Thea doesn't know how her parents deal with this day in and day out.

Of course, being one of the older kids, Thea is expected to help out with the younger ones, but her parents do a good job in managing everything so that she, Otto, and Ginger are never too swamped. They'll be in charge of smaller things like making the beds or cleaning up after breakfast whilst the adults deal with the mass of kids. Today was the first day that the older kids had been completely in charge, and so far it wasn't going to well.

Ginger is on breakfast duty, Otto is on clean up duty and Thea is on getting the younger kids dressed and presentable duty. She'd trade with either one of the others in a heartbeat.

And to their due, the oldest of the younger kids are trying their best to get the younger ones to behave—Fran, who'd just turned eleven, was doing a good job at making sure everyone still had both of their shoes, and Georgie, eight, was trying to make sure that once they were dressed they stayed dressed—but even with the extra help it was still a mammoth task.

"Hey, T, we're running out of time!" Otto calls, knocking on the door. "C'mon, you've still got kids to dress."

Thea leats out a groan, taking a deep breath before she opens the door. They've got an hour before the Reaping starts, so Otto's right; they are running out of time. It takes half an hour to actually get to the square, so they have thirty minutes at most to get everything in order.

"You're doing a good job," Otto soothes as she steps out, his arms full of plates and cups. He'd probably hug her otherwise. "Really good. Mom and Dad will be so proud of you! Now get out there and finish it."

So Thea heads back into the living room and finishes what she started. In her absence, Fran and Georgie had managed to get all but the youngest two kids dressed which Thea appreciates so much, and Ginger is almost done with breakfast (sandwiches so that no one can spill it on themselves), so as Thea starts on the kids' hair, braiding and combing, everyone is more or less ready. And the kids settle down almost instantly after being given food.

It takes Thea twenty minutes to finish, having to go back and braid a lot of the younger girls' hair again after they'd pulled it out, and when she's finally done Otto shoos her off to her bedroom to get ready herself. He and Ginger had somehow managed to get ready amidst the chaos, so she's the only one left.

She pulls out the dress her mom had made her a few weeks ago, donning it quickly before hunting for her shoes which end up having been kicked under Courdie's bed. Pulling them out and slipping them on she quickly combs through her hair. She tries to braid it, but her fingers are so tried from braiding her younger sisters' hair that she ends up just leaving the brown mess down. Maybe Ginger could pull it into some sort of ponytail whilst they were walking to the Reaping (she was some sort of an expert doing hair on the move after taking charge of the school run last year).

Exiting her room, she sees everyone lined up and paired together like their parents made them any time they went out in public. Fran and Georgie at the front and Thea and Otto at the back. When the horn blared out across the district, they left. Joining the throng of other people making their way to the square.

"You nervous?" Otto asks, hands in his pocket.

"Yeah," Thea admits. "I don't even want to think about how many times my name is in there."

"Me neither," Otto says, his smile falling a little. "Fourteen extra entries for five ye—"

"Shut up," Thea has to blink back tears. "Don't—I don't want to talk about it."

She already works in the factories after school, but Thea can't wait until she's old enough to drop out of school and work full time. Otto's almost done with his education, and he'll be leaving soon and then Ginger will go the year after him, but three extra incomes will help the family so much. Thea's hoping that, when the three of them are working alongside their parents, the younger kids won't have to take out so much tesserae.

It's hard being a family of fourteen on two measly incomes, but they make it work. Mostly due to Ginger, Otto and Thea's tesserae. And there are nights when Thea stares up at the ceiling, angry at her parents for having so many children, times when she says that to their faces, but deep down she wouldn't change their family for the world. It just sucks that they have to gamble their lives just so they don't starve.

Their mom and dad meet them at the square. They look tired, having taken the night shift at the factory so that they had the afternoon free, the eldest three gladly pawn the kids off on them and then they're hugged and sent off to get their fingers pricked with a chorus of a dull 'good luck'.

Thanks, Thea thinks, the Buckram kids certainly need it.

* * *

Ottoman "Otto" Buckram, 17.

* * *

Otto parts with Thea and Ginger after they all get their fingers pricked, pulling them both into one big hug. He filters into his section, takes his place beside his friends and anxiously waits.

He hears someone behind him complaining about their four tesserae entries and has to bite his tongue, reminding himself that it's nerve-wracking for everyone. Twelve-year-olds with one slip have been reaped plenty of times, enough for them to be up with nightmares for the few days before the Reaping. So he doesn't say anything, just keeps his gaze ahead and his breaths steady.

His friends try and distract him, try and draw his mind away from the Reaping, but it's hard when they're standing in the square and their escort is taking the stage. Otto clenches his draw as the woman totters over to the bowl, her heels the highest that he's ever seen in his life, and he doesn't join in with the laughter that rumbles from the crowd when she almost slips over. Her cheeks are bright red when she rights herself and for a minute Otto isn't sure if she's just embarrassed or if it's the makeup she's wearing, but when she clears her throat and cracks something that's almost a joke, the redness starts to die down.

"Welcome, District Eight!" The woman chirps when given the heads up to start. Otto is hyper-aware that the cameras are rolling now. "To the Reaping of the 94th annual Hunger Games!"

The mayor steps up to say his speech, the video plays, and everything goes way too fast. Otto looks across the aisle, trying to spot Ginger within the sixteen-year-olds. He thinks he can see her, but he's not sure. There are too many girls. Trying to spot Thea within the fourteen-year-olds is equally impossible, but he doesn't have to look for long before her name is echoing out across the district.

He feels as if he's been kicked in the stomach, struggling to catch his breath. He leans heavily on his friend beside him, watching as Thea makes her way to the stage. There are tears running down her cheeks as she moves, but she carries herself well as their younger siblings cry out from behind the rope. It's easy to see where Ginger is now, the crowd having somewhat parted around her as she falls to her knees, head in her hands.

She doesn't volunteer. Otto doesn't expect her to. He won't. He _can't. _Losing one child is bad enough, losing two is worse.

His family is ordered to quiet by the peacekeepers before Dottie moves to the boys' bowl. Otto isn't really listening, his gaze fixed on his trembling younger sister.

Dottie fishes out the boys' slip, and there's a brief look of horror on her face before she moves back to the microphone.

There's a tremor in her voice as she reads out Otto's name.

A sibling pair has never been reaped before.

Until now.

* * *

Barathea "Thea" Buckram, 14.

* * *

Thea sits alone for a while, curled up on the velvet sofa. It feels nice under her cheek, soothing almost, but her sobs don't stop as she comes to terms with the past few minutes. She and Otto were both reaped.

There's part of her that's not even surprised. It was bound to happen; they had their names in way too many times. But she feels horrible for thinking that, almost as if she'd caused it herself with her overthinking. Now there was no way for their family to ever be whole again. Maybe Thea could have won, it was unlikely but it was still a possibility, but there was no way she could win against Otto. She wouldn't want to. But Otto wouldn't want to be without her, either.

Eventually the door bursts open to her room and everyone piles in. She's pulled off of the couch by her dad, pulled into a bone-crushing hug. They don't speak; they don't have to. They all know that nothing is going to be okay ever again.

Thea hugs her mom and her dad and Fran and Georgie and Velvet and Lacy and Ginger and Dennie and Malcom and Courdie and Maggie and Eric.

She wishes that Otto was in the mix, not in the room beside her.

Ginger ushers the other kids out after a while, out into the hallway. Thea can still hear them sobbing even when the door closes. She'd give anything to have the chaos from this morning replace those tears.

Her mom steps forward, slipping off her wedding ring. "Your dad gave his to Otto," she sniffs. "So I want you to have mine."

"I love you Mom," Thea whimpers, closing her hand around the ring. It cuts into her hand but she doesn't care, throwing her arms around her parents.

"I love you too, Thea. And I'm proud of you, no matter what."

Thea stays in her mom's arms until the peacekeepers force them apart. She sits back on the couch, raising her hand to knock on the wall three times. _I love you._

She doesn't know if Otto knows the meaning behind her knocks, probably not, but the three knocks back sends her into another fit of tears.

Because will their love mean anything in the arena? Can it mean anything when they're both fighting for their lives? Can it mean anything when only one of them can come up on top?

* * *

**A/N: **a little shorter than the others considering that the mornings were the same, and there was no use in writing it twice.

Thank you for reading and, if you haven't yet, feel free to submit a tribute! Remember, I can only write for districts that I have two tributes for!


	5. District Four Reapings

**District Four**

* * *

Troy Clark, 18.

* * *

Troy pummels the punching bag in front of him, the _thwacks _of the boxing gloves against the bag disturbing the otherwise silent training room. His eyes narrow in determination, breath ragged as he continues and continues to hit, anger fuelling him for longer than he would normally last. But eventually he crashes, his punches getting weaker and weaker until he gives up and unstraps the boxing gloves, tossing them away as he sits down and tries to catch his breath.

Another morning, another argument with his parents. 'You train too much,' they tell him, 'you can't volunteer'. He'll prove them wrong though today, though, when he does volunteer, and he'll prove their first statement wrong when he returns home victorious from the arena, his training put to good use.

What did his parents expect him to do, anyway? Not train? Half-ass it? That wouldn't win him the Games. The careers, as an alliance, had such a high victory rate _because_ of their training. Those little kids from the very outer districts had no chance against the much older, much wiser, much more experienced tributes from the careers. That's why those districts were just bloodbath fodder; because they weren't worth it. Ten, Eleven and Twelve haven't had a victory in years, decades even, and for a very good reason—their tributes have no training, no hope of winning, and no experience. Troy has all of that. He's practically a victor already.

All he needs to do now is win the Games, and that should be fairly easy.

He stands up once he's caught his breath, grabbing a towel from his bag before heading off to the showers. He doesn't want to go back home if he can help it, so he plans to just carry out his morning routine here. It isn't out of the ordinary for him. If he could live here, he would.

The hot water feels nice running down his back, relaxing his muscles. He stays there for a while, eyes closed with nothing but the sounds of the water and the thoughts swirling around his mind. It's not until he hears other people's voices that he actually showers, aware that the morning is dragging on. He dries off once the water has stopped and gets changed into a smart t-shirt and dress trousers. For a while, he'd considered wearing a suit, but he'd decided that he didn't want to look too eager.

There's a lot of chatter in the academy as Troy leaves the showers and heads back into the training room, chin held high. He's aware of people staring at him as he walks through, hears the whispers about him being chosen to volunteer this year, and it makes him feel good to know that everyone has finally realised that he's better than them. That he's going to win the Games and bring glory to District Four once more. It's been a good few years since they've had a victor—One and Two had earned themselves most of the victories in the past ten years—but Troy is glad that he'll get to be the next one.

It's his right as the best student at the academy after all.

Leaving the academy, Troy basks in the heat of the sun as he heads down to the beach. It's barely morning, but the heat is almost oppressive—he's certain it hadn't been this hot when he left his house—but the cold water lapping at his ankles when he reaches the shore is a welcome reprieve. He wishes that he had left enough time to go diving for pearls. His hand instantly goes to the pearl necklace around his neck, made from the pearls that he'd collected over his various diving adventures. He's going to take it in as his token.

He'll have more than enough time to go pearl diving when he's living in Victors' Village.

He has to squint to see across the waves, the sun's reflection off of the water almost blinding. But he stares out, taking in the beauty of the vast stretch of water, until the reaping horn rings out, signalling that they need to start making their way to the square.

Troy takes a deep breath. This is it. This is his chance.

The other tributes don't know what's going to hit them.

* * *

Talisa Meeric, 18.

* * *

Lucas's voice and fist pounding on her door is what wakes Talisa up on the morning of the Reaping.

She barely has time to open her eyes before the younger boy is in her room, jumping onto her bed. He grins as she struggles into a sitting position, before he leans forward and wraps his arms around her neck.

"It's your day!" He exclaims as she moves to hug him back. "Daddy says you'll be a victor before we know it."

Talisa laughs, nodding against her brother's shoulder. "I will," she says. "But before I can do that I have to get ready for the reaping, meaning that you're going to have to leave me alone for a little while, alright? I'll see you at breakfast."

The nine-year-old nods, leaving the room with a thumbs up at his sister. Talisa can feel the excitement starting to build up as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands up, crossing the room to her wardrobe where she pulls out the blue dress that she'd borrowed from her mom last night. She lays it out on her bed, but before she gets dressed in it she heads out of her room and to the bathroom.

The door is locked when she tries to open it, and she groans, waiting for whoever it was in there to leave. Five minutes later and her other brother, Zale exits, raising his hand for a fist bump. Talisa shakes her head, but fist bumps him anyway. Her brothers can be pains sometimes, but they're well-meaning and she'll definitely miss them when she's in the arena.

She showers quickly and pads back across the hall to her bedroom, changing into the dress that she'd laid out. It fits her almost perfectly, and she's glad that her mom let her borrow it. It was definitely going to help her gain some sponsors at the reaping, that was for sure. It's a lot better than the dresses that she has in her wardrobe.

God. She just can't wait to be victor. It's going to be such a nice change from the simple life that her family lead now.

No more having to help out down at the docks, no more worries when there's a really poor harvest of crabs. Her parents won't have to work anymore, her dad won't have to get sunburnt anymore potting crabs, and her mom will be saved from the gruelling and boring work of making nets. Her brothers will get bragging rights, and she will have the satisfaction of knowing that she's improved their lives for the better.

It's a win-win situation all around, and Talisa has to say that she deserves the win more than the boy who's going to volunteer. She's met him a couple of times down at the academy, and he's been less than pleasant. The only people he considers himself as equal to is the victors themselves, which is saying a lot. Talisa doesn't necessarily hate him, but she hopes he knows that it's going to be her bringing the win to Four and not him.

Talisa returns to the bathroom to put on a little bit of makeup before she joins her family at the table, grinning at Lucas who's practically vibrating from his seat with excitement. He, Zale and their dad, have been nothing but supportive about her dreams to volunteer, and she definitely appreciates that. And whilst her mom isn't too keen on the idea, she knows that it's something that has to be done.

"Are you ready, kiddo?" Her dad asks as they tuck into the meal her mom had prepared. Talisa nods around a mouthful of pancakes.

"I was born ready," she states, and it's not untrue. Talisa's sense of ambition has been there since she was a kid, always striving for more than she had. She already has some of the top grades in her school, and with the training that she's been receiving since she was ten, winning the Games was a logical next step really.

Her excitement grows with every minute, and by the time that the horn echoes around the district, she feels as if she's about to explode. She's going to start her journey to become District Four's next victor.

* * *

Troy Clark, 18.

* * *

The heat hasn't eased a bit when Troy reaches the square, impatiently waiting to get his finger pricked. His lip curls as he finally reaches the booth, and is then made to stand with the rest of the eighteen-year-olds once his blood has been drawn. He wasn't friends with any of them; they were all beneath him in terms of training, and he makes no effort to socialise with people like that.

The only people that he actually has some sort of respect for are the victors; people who have sacrificed their own lives to benefit their district, and the only ones who have had the talent to succeed. He doesn't think much about those who volunteer and die—they made the wrong choice, took the spot of somebody else who could have won.

"Watch it!" He snaps as someone jostles him, turning around to glare at the boy. He catches sight of his parents over the boy's shoulder, watching him from beyond the rope. His father shakes his head at him, mouthing something that Troy can't decipher but doesn't want to.

He knows that it's along the lines of 'don't volunteer' or something like that, but it's just not going to happen. Troy can't just give up his chance to shine and become a fisherman or something worthless like that. He was put on this earth to do something with his life, with his talents, and the Games are that something. He hasn't met the other tributes yet, doesn't even know their names, hell, they probably haven't been reaped or haven't volunteered yet, but he knows that he'll be above all of them.

Troy watches as the escort finally takes the stage. His eyes are mostly on the victors sat at the back, the two mentors who will be giving him and his district partner advice in the run-up to the Games. It isn't like Troy will really need it, though, but he's willing to listen to them and try and learn something that he doesn't know already.

The mayor starts his speech, the video is played, and then Troy is rocking back and forth on his heels in preparation for his sprint to the stage. He still has a few minutes; the girls are always chosen before the boys, but he's more than ready to shout the words that he's been dreaming of shouting for years.

Their escort, dressed in a blue frilly dress that looks, in Troy's opinion, absolutely horrendous, takes her sweet time in choosing a slip from the girls' bowl. It's a futile thing, everybody in the district knows that those reaped in Four will never enter the games, but it's tradition all the same. The name that she does choose barely leaves her mouth before a girl breaks out of the eighteen-year-olds' section, shouting that she volunteers.

Troy has seen her around the academy before, but he can't remember her name. It doesn't matter though, because she's not going to be returning home.

The boys' name is soon read out, but Troy pushes and shoves his way out of his section before the boy can even register that he's been picked. His hand shoots up in the air as he runs, bellowing out that he volunteers.

He gives his name, shakes the girls' hand and strides into the justice building feeling nothing but pleased with himself.

His mom and his dad are less pleased when they come and say goodbye, but Troy doesn't care.

"You'll see," he says to them before they leave. "When I'm in living in Victors' Village you'll see."

* * *

Talisa Meeric, 18.

* * *

The square is bustling when Talisa and her family reach it. Her mother, father and Lucas leave to stand behind the rope, wishing her good luck as she does so, and her and Zale stand in the queue for their fingers to be pricked.

"You're really going to do it?" Zale asks.

"Yeah," Talisa nods. "I'm really going to do it. For you. For mom, dad and Lucas, too. I want more than to just be a crabber, or to weave fishing nets."

"Dad always says that you'll get the furthest out of all of us," Zale shrugs, taking a step forward as the queue starts to dwindle. "Says that you've got the most drive. He's not wrong, I guess. I know you'll come back. Easily."

"And I will," Talisa says, holding out her finger as she reaches the booth. It's not a lie. The two of them move through into the aisle. "I'll see you in the justice building."

Zale gives her a thumbs up and a final "good luck" before he moves to stand with the other fourteen-year-olds. Talisa moves into the eighteen-year-olds section, barely able to contain herself as she waits for the escort to take the stage and the ceremony to begin. This is what her entire life has been leading up to. This moment. Those months of begging her parents until they let her train, those eight years of training every moment that she could.

It was all about to be worth it.

She usually doesn't care about the speech or the video, but she hangs onto every word this year, not willing to miss her chance.

She tenses up as the escort moves to the girls' bowl and then, as the slip is being opened, she races towards the aisle, hand in the air. She's out of breath when she reaches the steps, throat sore from just how loud she'd shouted, but she'd done it; she was a tribute in the games. About to be victor.

On the stage all she can focus on was her parents' and brothers' beaming faces, knowing that over the next few weeks or so she was going to completely change their lives.

They push into the visitation room, hugging her tightly and fussing over her.

Before they leave, Lucas presses a seashell into her head.

"It's from the beach," he tells her. "It'll remind you of Four whenever you look at it. So that you won't forget."

"Thank you, buddy," she smiles, bending down to ruffle his hair. She couldn't wait until they were living in Victors' Village and he had everything he wanted and more. "I won't forget Four, now."

It's nice and cold against her palm as she curls her hand around it, sitting down on the plush couch behind her, watching as her family leaves. It feels good to have made them proud.

* * *

**A/N: **hope you enjoyed!


	6. District One Reapings

**District One**

* * *

Wolfgang Othello Kelar, 18.

* * *

The training academy is empty besides the youngest two Kelar children and their mother. Wolf sits with his back to the wall, watching his mother coaching his younger sister Vinnie as he tries to catch his breath, winded a little from the exercise he'd just done.

Vinnie's eyes are narrowed and face screwed up as she strikes the dummy again and again with her sword in a frenzy of attacks, and Wolf wrinkles his nose when he thinks about her entering the games. Their mom says that she shows the most promise and Vinnie echoes that, proclaiming herself as a psychopath. Wolf doesn't exactly think that it's something to be proud of, and he doesn't even believe it—not that he'll ever voice that opinion—but it'll make the Games interesting he guesses. See how she'll fare when she's not in the academy.

She joins him when she finishes, flopping down beside him and grabbing the water bottle from his hands without even asking. He doesn't bother reprimanding her though however much it annoys him.

"You're so lucky," she pouts eventually, eyes on their mom who was putting away the weapons they'd been practicing with. "I can't wait to volunteer."

"You'll get your turn," Wolf says, taking the bottle from her when she holds it out to him. "In three years."

She groans, letting her head fall back onto the wall behind them. "Well. If mom doesn't hurry up we'll both miss our chances."

Wolf glances at his watch, confused. "We have four hours to get ready," he says. "And you're only fifteen. Mom's not going to ta—"

"I was joking, Wolf," Vinnie snaps, rolling her eyes. "Of course she's not going to take three years."

They settle into an awkward silence, Wolf not able to come up with a rebuttal. He knows he's not good at identifying jokes, and Vinnie knows that too so he doesn't understand why she had to snap at him. She's an angry kid, he thinks, but maybe that's part of her psychopathic act. He keeps his eyes downcast, on edge of the practice mats, until Vinnie gets up and storms out, apparently excited to get home.

It's another ten minutes before Wolf and his mom leave, walking side by side through the district. Wolf is itching to get back and play his violin, something that's been part of his morning routine for years, but his mom is walking so slowly that he doesn't know how much time he's going to actually be able to play for.

"Are you excited?" His mom asks as they near the house. Wolf shrugs. "You're not going to do what Blush did, are you?"

"No."

"Good," his mom smiles. "I want at least one victor out of you kids and since Blush didn't take her chance, although I guess her engagement makes up for that, and Mosaic..." she trails off. Died, Wolf fills in the missing word mentally, since Mosaic died in training. "Well since Mosaic can't compete, it falls down to you and Vin—"

"I can do it," Wolf says. "I've planned it all out. I know what I need to do."

There's something akin to pride in his mom's eyes when he glances at her, and she claps him on the back. He doesn't know how to react to that, or what to say, so he just keeps his gaze forward and the silence that falls between them isn't awkward like the one in the training academy earlier.

When they get back the shower is running and Blush is sitting in the living room. Wolf greets her, and the mayor's son, her fiancé, before he heads up to his room. He'd been hoping that Vinnie was in the bathroom when he got back, cracking open his violin case. His mom will be fussing all over him once he's dressed, and so having a few moments to spare before he has to start getting ready means that he's free to play.

His mom and dad are downstairs with Blush, Vinnie's in the shower and so he's free to do what he wants.

As the music fills the air, Wolf starts to feel less on edge. His muscles relax, his eyes close, and his breathing evens out. It's just him and his violin; the downstairs chatter filters out, the sound of the water hitting the floor of the shower filters out, Vinnie's loud and off key singing filters out, and it's just Wolf and his violin. Just how he likes it.

He stops playing when Vinnie pounds on his door, yelling that it's his turn in the shower, and he puts it away. He'll miss it when he's in the arena, but when he gets back he'll have all of the time in the world to play.

Wolf showers, gets dressed, and prepares for what's going to happen this afternoon. He practices how he'll say that he'll volunteer, practices what tone he'll say his name in. He counted last year that there were seventeen steps between the stage and the eighteen-year-old-section, so he keeps that in the back of his head too.

When the horn rings out, Wolf is more than ready.

* * *

Martini Briefroz, 15.

* * *

"You'd better stop that, Rummy," Martini hisses, cheeks red as her brother screams and pounds his fists against the floor of the bakery. She knows that others are watching them, and she regrets telling her father that she could do this alone. "I'm being serious. Get up! We need to go home."

The boy doesn't listen, his cries only getting louder and louder. Martini groans. thanking the baker for the loaf of bread currently tucked into her backpack, bending down to prise her brother from the floor. He kicks and screams, scratching at her hands and arms as she carries him outside where they receive more and more judgemental looks from other citizens.

"You're such a spoiled brat," Martini huffs as Rummy scratches hard enough to draw blood. She puts him down, seizing his wrist. "Come on."

He stares at her, eyes filled with tears and bottom lip pouting. He'd stopped screaming for now, evidently realising that Martini was reaching the end of her tether with him. Martini feels somewhat relieved, although it's short lived because the boy stomps his foot and points back to the bakery.

"Go get the cake," he demands. Using his free hand to point back towards the bakery. "I want it."

"Well I want to go home," Martini says. "Besides, father didn't give us enough money. Maybe you can get it next time."

That sets her brother off again. Martini considers just leaving him there, just walking home without the demon in tow, but she eventually scoops him into her arms and starts to walk home. She won't take him out again, that's for sure. Not alone anyway. Her father is a lot better at dealing with him than Martini is.

Rummy screams all the way home, and ends up scratching her more than once. Martini isn't overly concerned; she's never liked the 'perfect and ditzy' angle that a lot of girl play from her district. She's a fighter, she's smart, and she shouldn't need to dumb that down just to get sponsors. She can pretend that the scratches are from training or something.

When she gets home, she puts him down, where he continues to wail, and kicks off her shoes, walking through to where her father is sat in the kitchen. She takes the loaf of bread from her backpack and hands it to him.

"Why's Rummy crying?" He asks.

"He wanted cake," Martini rolls her eyes. "I said no. So he started pitching a fit in the middle of the bakery, still hasn't stopped. Scratched me to all hell. You need to do something about it; he's only doing it because he can get away with it."

"You're too harsh on him sometimes," her father sighs as he starts to slice the bread. Martini huffs, crossing her arms. "He's five, kiddo. That's what five-year-olds do. Can you finish this for me? I'll go sort him out."

His wailing was still echoing through the house. Martini nods, pressing her lips into a thin line; there was no point in arguing, she'd tried before. Besides, Rummy will have to listen to her when she returns from the Games. They'll be living in her house, using her money to buy their food. He'll have to start respecting her then.

In the two minutes that it takes for her to finish slicing the bread, her father has somehow placated her younger brother, carrying him into the kitchen where he sits him at the table.

"Do you want to go get ready?" Her fathers asks, hand on her shoulder. "It's a big day."

The last part is said with a smile, and he pulls her into a hug before she heads upstairs and showers, changing into a black long sleeves shirt and a pair of shorts given to her by the academy.

Taking a few minutes to dry her hair, she heads downstairs where her father and Rummy are sat waiting for her to join them. She takes her seat and digs into the French toast. It's divine, and the trip down to the bakery might have been worth it if it hadn't been for Rummy's tantrum. Looking at him now, syrup on his chin and laughing at their father's jokes, its almost impossible to believe that he's the same kid who roars and screams when he doesn't get his way.

There's even been a few times that Martini has had to defend herself from him using force, although her father hates it when she dies that, and Martini has to say that she's interested in what he'll be like when he can redirect his anger into training. A fearsome tribute if there ever was one.

Then she pictures him throwing a fit in the arena, and the corners of her lips quirk up.

She might not be as fearsome as he turns out to be, or even as fearsome as the male tribute this year, but she's talented and that's all that matters.

She washes up after breakfast, when her father and Rummy disappear to get ready. The horn rings out and they join her downstairs, heading to the square with their chins up and confidence that she'll come back home.

* * *

Wolfgang Othello Kelar, 18.

* * *

Wolf gets to the square earlier that most. He says goodbye to his family, thanking them for the wishes of good luck, and heads to get his finger pricked. Once thats done he heads to the eighteen-year-old section, standing by the aisle.

There's a few people already there who look at him a bit weirdly when he doesn't join them at the other end of the section, but he needs to be as close to the aisle as possible. It adds two more steps onto the seventeen already, and that's all he needs.

He's aware that he hasn't been chosen to volunteer, but someone has, and he needs to beat them. He needs to grab this opportunity and he needs to come home victorious. For his mom. For himself. For Mosaic who should have been last years' victor.

The square slowly fills up and Wolf is able to keep his position by the aisle. In less that twenty minutes the section is filled, and the escort appears on stage alongside their mentors and the mayor. Having the speech and the video memorised from the many Reapings he'd been forced to attend, he tunes out until the escort moves towards the bowls.

The girls name is picked, but the girl has barely moved from her section when another girl is yelling that she volunteers. The tribute, dressed in clothes that, in Wolf's opinion aren't really suited for a Reaping (the other girls are mostly wearing dresses after all), announces that her name is Martini Briefroz.

Then it's Wolf's turn. He clenches his fists when the boy's name is called. He doesn't even stop to see who it is before he's taking those two steps into the aisle, hand raised high as he shouts the practiced words. Then he's taking the seventeen steps to the stage, the six steps, and four more strides to reach the escort. Being in front of the crowd is nerve-wracking, but he tries not to think too much of it as he holds out his hand to shake Martini's, then he's ushered through into the Justice Building to say his goodbyes.

The first in is Blush, congratulating him in doing what she could never stomach. She hugs him, tells him that she's proud of him, and then she leaves. Wolf hugs her back, but he doesn't quite know how to respond to her compliments.

His mom, dad and Vinnie pile in next. His mom pulls him into a bone crushing hug, rambling about how proud she is of him. Like Blush, but worse. He thanks her, thanks his dad and even Vinnie gives him a hug.

"I can't wait to be mentored by you," she says.

"That's providing our male tribute doesn't win in the three years between our games," Wolf says and Vinnie rolls her eyes again. "Which could happ—"

"I know," she says softly. "But it would be cool if you could mentor me."

"Yeah," Wolf nods with a small smile. The peacekeepers open the door. "I'll see you guys in a few weeks."

He sits back down on the couch, ready for the Games to be over and done with already.

* * *

Martini Briefroz, 15.

* * *

Yeah. Martini definitely isn't as fearsome as the male tribute this year. She doesn't let that bother her though; the man had guts, volunteering when he wasn't picked by the academy. She'd seen the face of the supposed to be volunteer in the crowd. He'd been eighteen. Now there was no chance in going into the Games.

Still, that wasn't what was important. The important thing now was that she was in the games. She was representing the Briefroz family. She takes a seat on the velvet couch, waiting for her father and Rummy to appear and say goodbye.

They do eventually, her father out of breath.

"Rummy was having a funny five minutes," he says. Martini looks at the toddler in his arms, cheeks streaked with tears. She can't hate him, but she's almost glad that she won't have to put up with him when she's in the arena.

But her father palms the kid off on her for a minute, and he nestles against her neck, thumb in his mouth. He's definitely too old to be doing that, but Martini doesn't bother saying anything.

"We're proud of you, kiddo," her father says. Rummy nods against her shoulder. "Do us proud out there, okay?"

"I will," Martini says, chin up again. Rummy slips off of her lap and stands next to their dad. "You don't have to worry about that."

"I know you will," her father nods. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a necklace. "I had this made for you." He hands it to her.

"It's beautiful," she whispers, looking at the peridot stone, the small diamonds spelling out her name and the wine glass charm. She hands it back to him, pulling her hair over her shoulder before turning around so that he can clip it around her neck. "Thank you so much."

They hug a final time and then he leaves with a final kiss on the top of her head. Martini curls her hand around the necklace, the metal cool against her hand.

She'd miss her father in the arena but it was fine; she'd be home in a couple of weeks.

* * *

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed!


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